When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen, Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland, Beyond the trackless purple sea, Old Martin’s ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me. Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft grey hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair. How good that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the dull and sombre earth. Some people ask: “What cruel chance Made Martin’s life so sad a story?” Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child. Because it was old Martin’s lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success! THE APARTMENT HOUSE Severe against the pleasant arc of sky The great stone box is cruelly displayed. The street becomes more dreary from its shade, And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die. Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie, Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade. How worse than folly is their labour made Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high! Yet, as I look, I see a woman’s face Gleam from a window far above the street. This is a house of homes, a sacred place, By human passion made divinely sweet. How all the building thrills with sudden grace Beneath the magic of Love’s golden feet! AS WINDS THAT BLOW AGAINST A STAR (For Aline) Now by what whim of wanton chance Do radiant eyes know sombre days? And feet that shod in light should dance Walk weary and laborious ways? But rays from Heaven, white and whole, May penetrate the gloom of earth; And tears but nourish, in your soul, The glory of celestial mirth. The darts of toil and sorrow, sent Against your peaceful beauty, are As foolish and as impotent As winds that blow against a star. ST. LAURENCE Within the broken Vatican The murdered Pope is lying dead. The soldiers of Valerian Their evil hands are wet and red. Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits, His cassock is his only mail. The troops of Hell have burst the gates, But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail.